The Permanent Homestead (a/k/a Ditching Life in the City)
Posted: Sun Jul 31, 2016 7:46 pm
In another thread, Xan expressed an interest in knowing more about my (now not-so-recent) move to the country. Actually, the term "country" is a little misleading, since it suggests a summer house in the Hamptons, which this certainly is not. I'm about 10 miles outside of a small town, surrounded by mountains and forest, and connected to the internet by satellite. I'm not sure what would interest other folks about what I'm doing, but probably the most unusual aspect of my transition from a life in the city to a homestead in the boonies is the fact that I was in my mid-fifties when I did it, and the fact that I did it alone.
What made me choose this kind of life? I guess I'd have to say total disenchantment with the alternative. I had been working in a high-powered litigation firm for many years. I was successful at what I did and enjoyed the exhilaration of the practice, but the stress was getting to me in a serious way. I pretty much ran on adrenaline and fear. I sometimes went weeks while immersed in a project without seeing the light of day, or even knowing what the weather was outside.
I can't really say what propelled me in this direction. My most important influence and role model while growing up was an Amish couple, and their quiet simplicity was something that in later years I found myself yearning to replicate in my own life. There were some other experiences when I got very brief glimpses of life in the mountains, and the feeling I always came away with was a "high" I can't describe.
When I made the move, which was about 6 years ago now, I didn't have much in the way of country skills, and my nestegg was pretty limited. I really didn't have a clue how I was going to make a living. I had never mended a fence, never filled a gasoline can or started a generator, never shoveled a driveway, never cooked with wood heat, never shot a rifle, never changed a tire (much less all four of them), never felled a tree or split four cords of wood. I had never even driven on snow. Suffice it to say that my learning curve has been steep.
After a couple of years, my little nestegg was pretty much gone. (It's darned expensive to get started in the country.) When that happened, the safety net suddenly disappeared, which is a scary proposition in a depressed rural community with extremely high unemployment and not a lot of discretionary income floating around. Indeed, there has been no easy answer to that problem, which I've dealt with by taking any kind of work that's offered to me and by building a smattering of part-time businesses that spin off just enough income to crack the nut each month. This time of year, my main source of income is farming. I grow a variety of things that I sell at the farmer's markets. It's been tricky finding the "niche" products that nobody else is selling, since I cannot compete with the locals with large tracts of land and machinery. (I do everything by hand.) Come October, that gig will be over, and undoubtedly I'll be doing something else, but I'm too busy to even think about what that might be.
Quite apart from making a living, just maintaining a rural piece of land can be overwhelming. Mowing is a 6-hour job that has to be done at least every week or two because of the ever-present danger of grass fires. Wood has to be put up for the winter. Fencing needs to be repaired. Gophers in the pasture need to be trapped or shot. The well has to be shocked and the cistern cleaned. Fruit from the trees and vegetables from the garden have to be processed (either canned, dried, or frozen). The gas-powered equipment has to be repaired and maintained. (Yes, this city girl really does crawl under a mower.) In another month, when the first hint of fall is in the air, everyone will feel the same sense of panic about getting it all done by the time the first snow flies.
This kind of work takes a real toll on a woman, all the more so when you're pushing 60 and everything constantly hurts. My day typically starts at 3 a.m., and I generally drop into bed exhausted by 7. I've usually got at least a couple of new bruises and scrapes.
Despite the hardship, I have never regretted this move for an instant. The quality of life is incredible. Relationships with people are as simple as putting on a pair of gloves and helping a neighbor pull a tree out of the road. People are plain and unpretentious, and even though folks are quite spread out, there is a strong sense of community. If you run your car into the ditch, somebody will undoubtedly come along with a truck and a winch and pull you out. In fact, there's a lot of give-and-take in everything. Neighbors helping neighbors, people joining together to get a job done; that's a big part of the culture here.
Another really neat thing about the country is that there is a recurring rhythm to things. Every month of the year has its particular tasks and challenges. You can look out from the mountain onto the farms in the valley below and know what time of year it is just by looking at the crops and the activity that's going on. And because everybody's pretty much on the same schedule, facing the same challenges, there's a strong sense of common purpose. You never question why you get up in the morning, which is something I often did when I lived in the city and worked in an office with marble and glass.
Oh, and did I mention those incredible dusty blue mountains set against the emerald green grass? Seriously, not a day goes by that I don't consciously think about how lucky I am to be here.
What made me choose this kind of life? I guess I'd have to say total disenchantment with the alternative. I had been working in a high-powered litigation firm for many years. I was successful at what I did and enjoyed the exhilaration of the practice, but the stress was getting to me in a serious way. I pretty much ran on adrenaline and fear. I sometimes went weeks while immersed in a project without seeing the light of day, or even knowing what the weather was outside.
I can't really say what propelled me in this direction. My most important influence and role model while growing up was an Amish couple, and their quiet simplicity was something that in later years I found myself yearning to replicate in my own life. There were some other experiences when I got very brief glimpses of life in the mountains, and the feeling I always came away with was a "high" I can't describe.
When I made the move, which was about 6 years ago now, I didn't have much in the way of country skills, and my nestegg was pretty limited. I really didn't have a clue how I was going to make a living. I had never mended a fence, never filled a gasoline can or started a generator, never shoveled a driveway, never cooked with wood heat, never shot a rifle, never changed a tire (much less all four of them), never felled a tree or split four cords of wood. I had never even driven on snow. Suffice it to say that my learning curve has been steep.
After a couple of years, my little nestegg was pretty much gone. (It's darned expensive to get started in the country.) When that happened, the safety net suddenly disappeared, which is a scary proposition in a depressed rural community with extremely high unemployment and not a lot of discretionary income floating around. Indeed, there has been no easy answer to that problem, which I've dealt with by taking any kind of work that's offered to me and by building a smattering of part-time businesses that spin off just enough income to crack the nut each month. This time of year, my main source of income is farming. I grow a variety of things that I sell at the farmer's markets. It's been tricky finding the "niche" products that nobody else is selling, since I cannot compete with the locals with large tracts of land and machinery. (I do everything by hand.) Come October, that gig will be over, and undoubtedly I'll be doing something else, but I'm too busy to even think about what that might be.
Quite apart from making a living, just maintaining a rural piece of land can be overwhelming. Mowing is a 6-hour job that has to be done at least every week or two because of the ever-present danger of grass fires. Wood has to be put up for the winter. Fencing needs to be repaired. Gophers in the pasture need to be trapped or shot. The well has to be shocked and the cistern cleaned. Fruit from the trees and vegetables from the garden have to be processed (either canned, dried, or frozen). The gas-powered equipment has to be repaired and maintained. (Yes, this city girl really does crawl under a mower.) In another month, when the first hint of fall is in the air, everyone will feel the same sense of panic about getting it all done by the time the first snow flies.
This kind of work takes a real toll on a woman, all the more so when you're pushing 60 and everything constantly hurts. My day typically starts at 3 a.m., and I generally drop into bed exhausted by 7. I've usually got at least a couple of new bruises and scrapes.
Despite the hardship, I have never regretted this move for an instant. The quality of life is incredible. Relationships with people are as simple as putting on a pair of gloves and helping a neighbor pull a tree out of the road. People are plain and unpretentious, and even though folks are quite spread out, there is a strong sense of community. If you run your car into the ditch, somebody will undoubtedly come along with a truck and a winch and pull you out. In fact, there's a lot of give-and-take in everything. Neighbors helping neighbors, people joining together to get a job done; that's a big part of the culture here.
Another really neat thing about the country is that there is a recurring rhythm to things. Every month of the year has its particular tasks and challenges. You can look out from the mountain onto the farms in the valley below and know what time of year it is just by looking at the crops and the activity that's going on. And because everybody's pretty much on the same schedule, facing the same challenges, there's a strong sense of common purpose. You never question why you get up in the morning, which is something I often did when I lived in the city and worked in an office with marble and glass.
Oh, and did I mention those incredible dusty blue mountains set against the emerald green grass? Seriously, not a day goes by that I don't consciously think about how lucky I am to be here.
Since then, I've mainly lived in suburbs, even though larger cities were not far away (Houston, Philadelphia, NYC, Baltimore). My definition of hell is a large city, probably because I grew up in an area where I could shoot a gun, walk in the woods, explore caves, and ride my bike all day long and never be afraid of being in harms way or alarming anyone - freedom with few externally imposed boundries! Neighbors were friendly, looked out for one another and rarely did we have to lock a door. There were no gangs. Again, my definition of hell would be having to live in a large city. I do however enjoy the benefits of technology such as the computer I'm typing on now ... and my smartphone, refrigerator, HVAC system, medical facilities, and car. I do think living in a less congested area makes it easier to understand that milk comes from cows, not a carton, and in general enables one to make a stronger connection to nature and the value of the life we have been given than one who has only experienced city life - but I am biased by my experiences. I have pretty much escaped the city, but not nearly as thoroughly as you. Bless you. 